


My Son Malcolm

by Warp5Complex_Archivist



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-23
Updated: 2006-03-23
Packaged: 2018-08-16 07:48:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8093917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Warp5Complex_Archivist/pseuds/Warp5Complex_Archivist
Summary: An old sea dog learns some new tricks! (11/09/2004)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).

  
Author's notes: Spoilers: 2.03 "Minefield," 2.26 "The Expanse," 3.01 "The Xindi," 3.23 "Countdown."  
  
I've opted to use the MACO Christian names already established by the writers on the "MACO Love" list, as they've made them so natural that I just can't think of them any other way! Hope y'all don't mind me borrowing?   


* * *

"Is he in some kind of trouble?"

I don't know why, but it's my automatic response whenever someone calls about my son. I actually sounded hopeful as I spoke and, going by the shock on Admiral Forrest's face, it certainly wasn't the reaction he'd expected from me. Knowing what he knew, and was about to share with me, I suppose he must have thought "trouble" was the understatement of the century.

Perhaps it's the fault of my guilty conscience, or my yearning to be needed by Malcolm: seeking something I can do for him to try to make amends.

Back in the early days of our marriage, while we still talked to each other, we had a tacit understanding, his mother and I, that Malcolm would follow in my footsteps and our younger child, Madeline, in hers. It seemed fitting—and Madeline lived up to our expectations quite admirably, eagerly embracing academia and distinguishing herself as a Professor of English Literature at an astonishingly early age. Every Sunday, when Maddie visits from Oxford, it amazes me how uncommonly animated her mother becomes, giggling like a schoolgirl as they discuss all sorts of things that are well beyond my understanding. She's a good girl, Madeline, and makes Mary very happy.

Malcolm, on the other hand, was groomed for the Navy. He could handle a boat before he was able to ride a bicycle, and never have I seen such dexterous fingers as his when it came to building model ships—of every type and era.

As soon as he could read, he was engrossed in books on Naval history, armaments and battle strategies and no visit to the seaside was complete without he and I spending a day or more out on the water together—sometimes fishing, sometimes practicing the ancient navigational skills, with charts, compass and sextant (I've never really believed in depending solely on technology.) He was the joy of my heart.

I suppose the turning point in our relationship came when Malcolm was around ten years old and made two very significant discoveries: the first, during an overnight boat trip, unhindered by the lights of civilisation, was the wonder and vastness of the night sky. He saved his pocket money for months, so as to buy himself a telescope, and spent hours exploring the stars through his bedroom window, imagining who or what might live among them.

The other was that, while he loved being "on" the sea, he couldn't bear to be "in" it. In the course of the same boat trip, and while absorbed in staring up at the twinkling heavens, he lost his balance and fell overboard. Despite wearing a lifejacket, he damn near drowned and was hysterical for ages afterwards. Before that, he'd had an academic appreciation of the power of the waves. Now, he had first- hand experience and it shocked him to the core.

Until that time, failure was alien to my bright, capable boy. He'd been able to master every challenge and overcome all obstacles—even a huge number of allergies, which left him dependant on an unpleasant regime of medication and forbidden from enjoying numerous foods, and activities, normally enjoyed by children of his age.

Suddenly, he'd found an adversary he couldn't beat and a force beyond his control. His confidence in himself and his own abilities was shattered and he began to withdraw, fearful of encountering anything—or anyone—new.

Foolishly, I told him he was a coward; tried to make him face his fears, like his aquaphobic great uncle, who went down with the submarine "Clement". I sent him to England, to be "toughened up" at boarding school, where he was deeply unhappy. Unforgivably, I forced him to follow me into the Navy—and with each clumsy attempt to mould his young life I succeeded only in making him hurt and resentful, pushing him further away from me and from the brilliant career I so wanted him to have.

Confused, lonely, and furious with me, he mustered his courage, resigned his commission and fled to San Francisco, where he joined Starfleet as a trainee engineer. His letters home were few and far between, and dwindled further when he discovered his manual dexterity, developed while building those tiny model ships, could also be utilised for handling the delicate components of micro- detonators and targeting scanners.

Driven, I'm sure, by his anger, he became almost obsessed with destruction and switched courses to develop a specialisation in weaponry and explosives. His first assignment as an Ensign, aboard a ship sent to assist in terraforming our moon, further fuelled his fascination with outer space. He knew there was a warp five starship in development—the first of its kind—and he wanted to be on it when it launched.

On eventually returning to earth, and belatedly, due to his changing specialisations, he was promoted to Lieutenant. Some time later, in one of his few messages home, he mentioned that he was now undertaking security training, with a view to seeking a post as Chief Armoury Officer on the new vessel—now christened Enterprise and due for launch in six months time.

He was already in space, and a veteran of several skirmishes with unfriendly aliens, when we finally heard—from his captain, no less—that he'd been successful and was now, indeed, a gifted Armoury Officer, and exploring the stars. Thinking back on it, when Captain Archer called, I remember I asked if he was in some kind of trouble then too.

He wasn't, but he is now.

We knew about the terrible destruction wreaked during the alien attack on earth, and that Enterprise was the only vessel capable of preventing a worse catastrophe. We knew our son was aboard that ship and would have a key role in any ensuing battles. We knew he could be killed, or dreadfully injured, and were prepared for that—but not for today's news.

Apparently, he'd been the last one ashore, as if he wanted to be sure he'd got everyone else safely home first. He'd attended the interminable debriefings, giving precise and helpful reports at each, then, when his duty had been fully discharged and all that was left was the presentation of medals, he quietly locked himself in the lavatory at Starfleet HQ and slit his wrists. Fortunately, his friend, Ensign Mayweather, the Enterprise helmsman, had noticed his absence from the dais and went looking for him. It was almost too late when they transported him out to Starfleet Medical. They were almost too late when he tried again, cold-cocking one of the doctors and deliberately overdosing on his medication. They were much too late when he, somehow, got out of his restraints and threw himself through the closed window of his locked, second floor, hospital room.

Admiral Forrest apologised that Starfleet couldn't do anything more for him. He said that their resources had been badly overstretched by the campaign to find the Xindi and protect Earth against any further attack. They had anticipated physical casualties, after the horrors of the Delphic Expanse, but not the need for long-term psychiatric nursing too. Malcolm didn't fit with their plans: he had fallen apart and couldn't—didn't want to—be mended: now they needed someplace to put him.

The monsoon started the day they brought him home. He always hated Malaysia in the rainy season—it kept him from seeing the stars—and it seemed like a judgement from God that the heavens opened just as his shuttle landed. Settled in his old bed, he looks peaceful—but it's a fragile, unnatural peace. Although his terrible injuries have been healed, his spirit is still broken and only medical science keeps his body alive: Malcolm gave up the fight long ago. The doctors have catheterised him and he's fed through a tube. Another tube pumps sedative into his veins, so he doesn't wake, get agitated, and try to hurt himself again. They acknowledge that it might be kinder to let him die, but they've taken oaths to do no harm—so they prolong his agony.

Now, six weeks after his homecoming, I sit by his side and ponder the fact that I'm not bound by any such oaths. But he's my son—not the one I imagined I'd have, but still my son. My job, and his mother's, is to keep him clean, massage the pressure points that might develop bedsores and turn him at regular intervals. If anything seems amiss, we're to call Starfleet Medical right away.

The doorbell rings and I snap out of my reverie and go downstairs: my wife—sadly unsuited to her role as a mother, and now nurse—is out lecturing at the nearby university and has probably forgotten our security code yet again. To my surprise, a tall young man stands on our porch instead. He's dressed casually but has a brisk, unmistakeably military, bearing and almost leaps to attention as I open the door.

"Admiral Reed?"

I nod, a little irritated that he knows MY name while HE remains a stranger to me. "That's correct. To whom am I speaking?"

Standing even straighter, he announces "Major Matthew Hayes, Sir." He almost barks the "Sir", making me smile despite myself. "I served with your son aboard Enterprise, during the mission to the Delphic Expanse. I ...I wonder if I might visit him for a while? I'm on medical leave myself right now and my doctor told me he'd been sent home."

I find myself oddly pleased by his demeanour, but I remain wary as I invite him indoors. "Please come in, Major. Perhaps you'd care to have some tea and tell me a little more about yourself before I let you see my son."

It's not an invitation he's at liberty to refuse and, going by the spark of amusement in his eyes, he knows it. "Thank you, Sir. That's very kind of you."

We adjourn to the sitting room and sip Darjeeling while we talk. He's polite and succinct as he tells me of the initial friction between himself and Malcolm, which flared into a fistfight, then, gradually, grew into mutual respect and liking. His voice softens as he reminisces about my son and I fleetingly wonder if there's more than friendly interest behind this visit.

He also informs me that he, effectively, "died" in Malcolm's presence—the result of injuries from a blast by a Xindi hand weapon, received while carrying out a rescue mission in my son's stead. He woke some time later, a victim of faulty sickbay monitoring equipment, in the Enterprise morgue. Apparently, the ship's doctor took it all rather badly, although he succeeded in repairing the damage and restoring the Major to a measure of health. There's still a weakness in his cardio vascular system, though, and its very likely that he'll be invalided out of his commando unit and condemned to a desk job of some sort—a prospect he, quite clearly, does not relish.

He's a forthright but respectful man, and I find that we understand each other very well, so, finally satisfied that I am not admitting some nosy interloper into my son's presence, I tell him the full details of Malcolm's situation while I usher him upstairs. He seems unmoved, but I notice he's wiping sweaty palms on his trousers as I open the bedroom door and wave him inside.

I watch as he walks slowly to the bed and looks at the still figure lying there. He takes in the ashen skin, stretched tautly over delicate bones, so recently broken. He studies the fine tracery of scars and the strange hairdo, with its longer tufts and stubbly patches testifying to its owner's emergency neurosurgery. At last, he sinks weakly into the chair I had vacated less than an hour earlier and takes Malcolm's limp hand in his, before lifting it to his lips and placing a gentle kiss on its knuckles.

When I see him reach to caress my son's pale face, I experience a flare of jealousy, realising that this man has known my son's affection. In the face of such intimacy, I suddenly feel like an intruder in my own home: "I, um, suppose I'll leave you alone with him for a while then."

He starts at the sound of my voice and turns to face me, eyes glistening but blazing with anger at the same time. "How can this have happened? He's the bravest man I've ever met. Why would he just give up like this?"

A possible reason is dawning on me and, cruelly, I decide to test out my theory: "There must have been a lot of panic and confusion aboard Enterprise when you were trying to intercept the Xindi weapon. Perhaps ...perhaps Malcolm never got to hear about the faulty equipment in sickbay ..."

Even as I watch, the Major's face blanches and he starts to tremble. He knows that I'm probably on the right track and I immediately regret my vindictiveness. Producing the hip flask that is my constant companion these days, I offer it to him and, gratefully, he takes a hefty swallow. "Thank you, Sir. I'm okay now. Please excuse me: I should be going." I'm surprised by my own response: "Stay. He needs you."

I can't read the emotions flitting across his handsome face but I can see the attractiveness of the man. Even with his soldierly persona in tatters, there's an honest intensity about Major Hayes that is deeply engaging—and I know I can trust him with my son's heart.

I push him back down into the chair by the bed. "Talk to him. I'll get the guest room ready for you. Is there anyone you can call, to send you over some clothes and suchlike?"

Looking a little flummoxed, he thinks for a moment: "Yeah, Josh. Josh Kemper. May I use your com-unit?"

Within two hours, another earnest young soldier is on my doorstep—carrying a kitbag and accompanied, at the Major's request, by Dr Phlox, the Denobulan physician who had served with Malcolm on Enterprise. Kemper greets Hayes warmly, exchanges a few concerned words then departs, leaving the kitbag and the doctor behind.

The Major circles the Denobulan, to my mind, a trifle menacingly. When he speaks, his voice is cold and hard; his words shock me and make the doctor squirm: "I want you to wake Malcolm up. Those goons at Starfleet Medical don't know what they're doing."

To my surprise, I'm in accord with what he's saying—but the doctor is not.

"I'm sorry, Major. Lieutenant Reed is no longer my patient. I cannot interfere in his treatment. Despite your misgivings, I'm sure his doctors know what's best for him."

I wince—knowing that I used to think I knew what was best for him too.

Hayes' face reddens alarmingly, and I briefly worry about his blood pressure, but he's controlled and calm when he answers, almost in a growl. "You OWE me Phlox. That equipment was YOUR responsibility. There isn't much air in those mortuary drawers. If Ensign Cutler hadn't found me when she did, I'd be orbiting some god-forsaken planet in a torpedo casing by now."

Phlox shoots me a distressed glance, seeking support, and I shrug helplessly: I long ago forfeited any rights to my son's life.

Hayes takes the lead, as a good commander should, and, as I stumble along behind, he tows the physician upstairs, standing him right beside Malcolm's bed. "Wake him. Now."

The Denobulan looks stricken—and I realise the he has been more affected by the sight of the living corpse that is my son than by the man hovering threateningly at his shoulder. He studies the chart left by Malcolm's regular doctor then deftly disconnects one of the IV lines. Opening his medical case, he withdraws a small scanner and takes readings before injecting my son with two separate drugs.

For a moment, nothing happens then, very slowly, Malcolm blinks a few times and opens his eyes—seeming to look directly at Hayes. The Major gasps with joy and reaches to caress him—then withdraws his hand suddenly. There is no recognition in that dazed grey gaze as he stares blankly at the man—the hardened soldier—who, I'm now certain, is desperately in love with my son.

In emotional agony, he shakes Phlox by the shoulders "What's wrong? What did you do to him?"

The doctor sighs sadly. "What you told me to do. You have to remember that Lieutenant Reed made three suicide attempts—indicating severe depression and a very deep despair with life. Although he's awake, his mind may be trying to protect itself by choosing not to acknowledge reality. Alternatively, there may be lasting damage as a result of the significant head trauma caused by his.. umm .. fall. Only time will tell."

Weeks draw into months and Major Hayes becomes a permanent part of our household. He works tirelessly with Malcolm: talking to him, bathing him, shaving him, washing his hair, massaging his wasted muscles with liniment—the list goes on. The tenderness and reverence with which he treats my son's dwindling flesh eradicates any remaining concerns I may have about their relationship, but I see the dark smudges of sleeplessness under his eyes and wonder how long he can keep it all up. I worry too about his breathlessness and the slight blueness of his lips, which seem to contradict the physical fitness his fine musculature implies.

Oblivious to it all, my son continues to sleep or stare towards the window—maybe still searching for his beloved stars. On studying his drawn features, I struggle to see the boy-child I once knew—laughing delightedly, with the wind in his hair and salt spray on his face, as we skimmed over the waves in his Uncle Archie's yacht. Now, that carefree imp, who worshipped his father like a god, is long gone—grown into a virtual stranger: a man with more stormy depths than any ocean I ever sailed. Depths that I resented and never once tried to fathom.

One night, I slip into his room to try to usher the Major off to rest. He's recently finished helping my wife with the strenuous task of changing Malcolm's bed linen around him and is now standing at the open window, pale and panting a little. Turning when he hears me come in, he smiles shyly and greets me, absently rubbing at his chest. "Hello Sir. I hope you don't mind the draught. I just felt the need of some air."

Before I have time to reply, however, Hayes groans and pitches forward, jerking and seizing.

Its then that I realise Malcolm is seeing him.

All hell breaks loose as my son begins to scream hysterically. "Matthew! No! Oh, no!"

Something in his horrified expression makes me sense he's reliving an awakened memory—and it's as if a dormant volcano has erupted and is spewing a lava of molten grief and pain.

I bellow for my wife to call the doctor while I try to aid the stricken man, all the time hearing Malcolm's broken sobbing. Mary does as I ask, then arrives in the bedroom and takes over with the Major while I go to my son. "Malcolm! Malcolm he's going to be alright. The doctor's on his way: Matthew's going to be fine."

I pray that I'm right as I hold his wasted body against me, trying to shield him from the sight of the convulsing man and soothe him as if, once more, he was that scrawny, terror-stricken, bedraggled child I fished out of the sea on that boat trip long ago. It occurs to me that I haven't, with his knowledge, touched him for over twenty-five years and I feel my failure keenly.

Major Hayes has quietened now and my wife has him on his side, as I instructed her, and is supporting his head on her lap—a strangely caring gesture for a woman who prefers not to have physical contact with much other than books. His colour is a little better and, by the time our doctor arrives, he's able to admit to forgetting to take his daily medication—thus triggering the attack we just witnessed.

Throughout the drama, however, his eyes have never left my son. The moment he can stand, he's by his side, stroking the dark head, which has been resting on my shoulder since weakness made him reluctantly accept my support. I give way to the better man and push Malcolm into Matthew's arms. None of us speak.

I watch as, eventually, my son turns his tear-streaked face to him then bestows the gentlest of caresses on the Major's stubbled cheek. "You're real I haven't been dreaming. You're alive and you're here with me."

The wonder in his eyes and the trembling awe in his voice makes me happier than I could ever have imagined. To my immense surprise, it doesn't seem to matter to me that they're both men—and that neither of them is in the Navy. I turn to share my joy with Mary but she's gone, her quota of human interaction probably exceeded for the day. I decide to follow her lead and leave Matthew and Malcolm to make up for lost time.

An hour or so later, I look in on them and find them both asleep, chastely entwined in each other's arms, and I sit for a while watching, drinking in their contentment. They're neither of them in good health and have both experienced more trauma and grief in recent months than most of us face in a lifetime. Somehow, though, I'm now confident that they have a future.

As we sat together, through all those days and nights of keeping vigil over Malcolm, we talked about him, and the Major introduced me to a man I'd never known. I learned of his technical brilliance with weaponry, his fierce protectiveness of his shipmates, his bravery in battle and his courage in overcoming his own insecurities—allowing he and Matthew to, first, work well together and then, eventually, fall in love. How I wish I could say, as his father, that I had nurtured those fine attributes.

Dear Lord, I regret so much in my life.

In the weeks that follow, I try to withdraw from Malcolm, reasoning that I've long been a sadly neglectful parent and have no right to make claims on him now. However, I silently applaud as Hayes implements his own little rehabilitation plan and gets him eating and moving around again. The Major tolerates no nonsense—hand feeding him, if he won't eat by himself, and taking him through a series of gentle exercises, prescribed by Dr Phlox, to build his muscles again and loosen his stiff joints

There are a few screaming arguments along the way, but the results of their hard work are plain to see. Malcolm looks stronger and more vital every day and Hayes is doing a fine impression of the cat that got the cream. It'll be hell when they go, I admit, sadly—preparing for the loss by distancing myself a little more.

Hayes has to pay periodic visits to Starfleet Medical, for tests and a reassessment of his treatment, and, this time, will be away for an entire day. As he leaves, he kisses Malcolm and entrusts him to my care. I realise then that he's seen the redeveloping gulf between us, and means to close it again.

It seems that he's been doing a little advocacy for me too, as I discover when Malcolm actually asks for my help. "Father?"

I start at the sound of his voice and look up from my newspaper—shock, no doubt, written all over my face. "Malcolm."

He clears his throat and finds a dreadfully interesting pulled thread on the bedspread. "Erm, would ...would you mind helping me to the lavatory? I'm still rather wobbly."

Nodding, I stand and assume the role of crutch, noticing, as I put a steadying arm around him, that he's still dreadfully thin. "Off we go, then. Do tell me if I'm hurting you."

Amazingly, he laughs, but the sound has a bitter edge to it. "No. Its me that's been hurting you."

We've only gone as far as the bedroom door but he stops and draws me into a hug. "Thanks for everything, Dad. I'm so sorry I've been a complete prat all these years. You ...you just made me so bloody angry. I wanted to hurt you back then I just couldn't stop. Please forgive me."

He makes to draw away, but I hold him in place and he slowly relaxes against me. When I try to answer him, the words can't make it past the tightness in my throat and I only manage a sort of strangled cough. I try again, and, this time, I succeed "Oh my darling Malcolm. My dear, sweet, boy. There's nothing for me to forgive. You, on the other hand..."

I hear an enchanting, throaty chuckle—pitched so differently from the choirboy-high giggle he had as a child. "Oh Lord, there we go again. Can't agree on anything, can we?"

I find that I'm laughing now too, but a stab of fear pierces my heart when he suddenly goes quiet and rigid in my arms. "Malcolm?"

He sounds different as he answers, his voice oddly strained. "Umm, remember how you were taking me to the lavatory ?"

Confused by the subject change, I grunt affirmatively and he looks up, his pale cheeks colouring slightly. "Too late."

The Major has, as expected, been discharged from active duty. Malcolm already knows that his own career is over: emotional instability, albeit temporary, does not mix well with access to powerful weaponry—and Starfleet won't take any chances on whether or not he's cured. Hayes has turned down his anticipated desk job and so both of them are now dependant on ex-service disability pensions, which certainly won't give them a comfortable life.

They're both facing difficult adjustments and an uncertain future, but its clear they intend to meet these bravely and together—two complimentary halves of one whole, each providing the strength the other lacks.

I glance at the closed door of the Study knowing that, as usual, Mary's in there writing, or devouring some highbrow literature, and, in a way, I can't help envying them. They're leaving in less than an hour, with the intention of heading to Jupiter Station and meeting up with ex-Ensign Mayweather, who's married Dr Phlox's assistant—Elizabeth somebody-or-other—and decided to go back to his "boomer" roots. He's set up his own space freight business, on one of the new generation of faster cargo vessels, and is currently recruiting a crew.

Knowing how much Malcolm misses being among the stars, and that Matthew will go where he goes, he's offered them berths on his ship. They may not be up to scratch for military or Starfleet service, but boomer crews are rather like extended families and are less rigid about age and peak fitness. Mayweather is more interested in their integrity and experience—and that they're also both good men to have around in a fight.

Voices are raised in argument, as they try to decide which of them is strong enough to carry their bags, and there's an air of excitement in the house. At last, everything is assembled at the front door and Hayes is carrying out a final inventory on their belongings. Depressed, I drag myself to my feet and shuffle out to say my farewells, aware that Malcolm is watching me. I smile at him: "So, this is it. I'm finally getting my house back again."

I'm aiming to sound relieved, but I miss it by a mile and know, from his grin, that Malcolm has noticed—perceptive little whippersnapper. Hayes looks up and smiles. "Yup. And I never quite made it to that guest room of yours."

I smile too, at the memory of Matthew finding all sorts of creative positions for sleeping in a chair as he stubbornly kept to his post by my sick son's bed. The smile widens, as I recall the two of them, as he recovered, curled tightly together like dormice, yet still overlapping Malcolm's narrow mattress.

The smile fades, and I hang my head, as that damnable antique cuckoo clock of my wife's reminds me that their shuttle leaves in thirty minutes. I only have half an hour more with my precious boy.

His voice jerks me back to the present: "You still have time to pack."

It takes a moment for me to realise he's not talking to Hayes.

"Come with us, Dad. The ocean's wide, but space is wider—and there's an awful lot of it needing explored. Travis will find something to keep you occupied and paying your way."

I glance up to see both men watching me earnestly, and I realise that they've already talked about this possibility and are in complete agreement. They actually WANT me to come along.

Within ten minutes, I've thrown my comfiest clothes and a few keepsakes into a holdall and written a note to Mary—there's no point in disturbing her with a triviality like me leaving, she hardly notices when I'm here anyway. All our finances are in both of our names, so she won't go hungry—and Madeline's been all the company she's ever really needed.

As I close the door behind me, and contemplate this gift of a new beginning, I silently thank every deity I can think of—for my son Malcolm.


End file.
